4,5 hours sleep. Ouf. Strong, burning hot coffee. I am not sure if it helps. Everything is too sharp. The paper I cut my finger with. The winds that blows so hard, cutting sharp into my face. The late afternoon light sharp like a razor, which makes my head dizzy and throbbing. On the platform I spot a man, who looks familiar. The same button-up conduct, the same sharp lines along the nose. Rather feminine lips. But my memory of him is too blurry and then the man turns his back to me. From behind he looks alike all commuters. Slumped shoulders. Forward bent head as if this would help to carry back home a long day. It is strange I know all the people on the train. I know where they will get off and when one of us forgets an umbrella or a scarf, we wave and shout, but we never talk with each other.Back in the village: A chat with the grocer’s wife. A cup of tea with K. The cat sleeps on the windowsill. The dog and I leave for our walk. I boil an egg and have another cup of tea. I search for a poem of Erich Fried in my head. But I can’t bring the words in their right order. A sharp pain, sharper than all the others, an old fear: losing the words. I hide under the blanket. A peaceful place such a duvet, warm but not too heavy, a good cover to hide away and to forget the world and the words for a while. Just for five minutes I think and close my eyes. When I wake up again, the village is asleep. In the meanwhile the poem came back to me. It doesn’t say much to me anymore. I don’t even know why I was so desperately looking for its words.I listen to the news, brush my teeth and draw the blanket over my head again. Sitting out the world seems to be the right thing to do.